The Readymades
by Arlia'Devi
Summary: Italy knows there are 'things' Germany wants to try - really dirty things. He's half tempted to give his lover what he wants. And, if that mind-blowing reunion in the closest at the World Conference is anything to go by, he's in for a wild ride. ' What's the harm' he thinks. 'Variety is the spice of life' Gerita. PWP. BDSM.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of the characters. Rights go to Hidekazu Himaruya and distribution, publishing, and broadcasting associates. I make no money from this.

**Rated M**: This fanfiction contains a sex scene, and some aspects of light BDSM. If you're not comfortable reading such material, please be warned.

**The Readymades**

By Arlia'Devi

**One**: Ties and Storerooms

It wasn't that Germany hated the World Conferences. He disliked them, true – because all the other nations seemed to do was argue amongst each other and nothing was done – there were no laws passed, no problems solved. They were simply tedious. If it wasn't England getting mad at America, it was France trying to pick at England, or China telling Japan where to shove it or Russia sitting on Canada again. Greece was usually asleep, like he was now and Italy – oh, don't get him started on Italy.

He and _Italy_… where to begin?

They'd had this predicament for a long time. The kind of predicament where he got so frustrated and hot under the collar that the only way to deal with it was to rip his clothes off, pin Italy's body underneath his and give it to him for all he was worth - over and _over_ again. It drove him insane – _he_ drove him insane. The Italian, from the very day he'd met him, had this way of getting completely under his skin and making him itch all over.

Ludwig looks to the Italian man representing the northern half of his country to his left. He is doodling on a notepad while the American is half addressing the band of countries, half having a major bitch about England while he has excused himself to the toilet.

Sometimes they call each other by their real names; by their 'human' names they've coined over the centuries of life. It seemed nicer, more intimate that as they got closer, they began calling each other human names – like pet names. Yet, he does not call France by his real name, nor Romano – though Italy calls his brother _fratello_, predominately - because it is not proper. He has heard America and England call each other by their real names, often in their own conversations he sometimes overhears accidentally.

Feliciano sighs and rests his head on his hand, noticing that Germany has cast his gaze toward him.

"It's boring, Ludwig," he hums, flicking the pencil on the notepad. "When will it be over?"

"We only started a few hours ago," replises Ludwig. "And you're not even taking notes."

"Well you haven't either!" retorts Italy. Germany looks down to his notepad. It is startlingly blank.

"That's because there's nothing noteworthy about these conferences," grunts the German and Italy laughs

Feliciano looks to America, who was busy talking to other countries, like France and Canada. America's much too full of himself to notice what is happening amongst the European countries as he delivers his economics report – 'American style'.

"_So like, America is totally kicking it with the economy,– I mean check it yo, we're so rich, and if we need money, we can totes demand it from England."_

"_Git!" _

Ludwig sighs and looks at Italy's notepad again. Doing what he loves most – drawing. He's finished his drawing of his brother, who sits directly opposite him on the other side of the room. Now he is starting on something else, but he's only started the sketching for the head, and it is hard to tell who he's chosen to immortalise in graphite this time. Ludwig is in half a mood to tell the little Italian to stop messing about and listen, but America is rambling on and on, and Ludwig s barely listening to the self-indulgent narcissism himself let alone telling someone else to.

Italy hums a small tune Germany recognises but doesn't know the title. He watches him inconspicuously for the next few minutes. He is drawing his older brother, France. Germany doesn't like France much – old rivalries and different cultures are the predominant factor, but Italy has known him for quite a long time.

The drawing is very good. Italy is good at things like that. He spends much time drawing and painting. Germany appreciates it when he has the time, but being a general of a military doesn't leave much for cultural endeavours.

"I think I speak for everyone when I say we need a break…," says France suddenly as America winds down his rant. Italy breathes out and drops his pencil and leaves the conference room without a word. Probably for the toilet, Germany thinks – he knows his neighbour drank copious amounts of coffee throughout the morning knowing he was to miss this afternoon's scheduled siesta.

Germany shifts in his seat as he sees Romano, approach his brother as he exits the conference room, leaving the empty seat next to Spain who soon begins talking casually with England. Prussia has never attended a World Conference; his country was dismembered many decades ago. Sometimes he likes to hear of the gossip and Germany divulges it for him – of France being a twat, and Spain making cow-eyes at his Southern Italian partner across the table.

"_Do you make cow-eyes at your northern Italian partner?" chuckled Prussia once. "Ludwig and Feliciano sitting in a tree-,"_

"_Finish that sentence and I'll leave you on Austria's doorstep."_

_Prussia had shut his mouth, and then promptly burst out laughing._

Ludwig sighs and rises from his seat and goes to the water cooler. America is standing there, talking with China – boasting and Germany does his best to ignore him. America doesn't bat an eyelash at the man, and continues talking to China. Romano comes back into the conference room, Germany notices with perked eyebrows. He crushes the Styrofoam cup and brushes past the Italian sibling.

"Potato bastard," says Romano, grasping Germany by the shoulder. Romano's eyes are open, and they're hard. He's got such a temper compared to his placid brother.

"If you hurt my brother, you'll be sorry."

Spain is watching the confrontation from across the room. The German only gives him a small nod in acknowledgement before shrugging Romano's hand off his shoulder and leaving the conference room. He half wants a cup of coffee though he's slightly thinking about making a run for it while on a break…

And then he sees Italy coming out from the bathroom at the end of the hallway. His hands must be damp because he sees the Italian style his hair with the residue moisture before Italy notices him, gives out a happy yelp and approaches leisurely.

Germany looks at his watch. There's fifteen minutes before he is due back at the meeting.

"Aye, Germany!" says Italy with a comical grin. "This meeting sucks. I saw a gelato place down the road – why don't we go, huh? Gelatooo-,"

There's something in Germany that suddenly snaps. Maybe it's because his little nation lover has styled his hair a little differently with the water, or maybe it's because the button of the top of his shirt has come undone, but something just snaps.

It. Just. _Snaps_.

There's a storage cupboard at the end of the hallway, and Germany swings the door open. Violently, he throws Italy down onto a spare table, hidden behind a few buckets and mop heads. He closes the door behind him and presses his back against it, breathing heavily. The light flicks on. Italy squirms against the table, his buttocks wiggling against his black trousers.

"Germany!" cries Italy, looking back at the German man as he grabbed his arms and pinned them to the small of his back. "Ah! That hurts!"

"Shut up," Ludwig growls, pushing him down onto the table. His nose presses into the cold surface.

And then Feliciano can feel Ludwig behind him, pressed against him so intimately and scorching him through his trousers. It makes him drool and he screws his eyes shut. Ludwig is so devious… so naughty, so damn right hot – because any one of those people in the boardroom can come in. They could hear them, and open the door and then one of the worst kept secrets would be out in the open. Italy had no idea the German was possibly an exhibitionist, but it doesn't feel like that - it feels dirty and hot and desperate and Italy whimpers as the German flexed his hips.

Ludwig goes for the buckle at his pants, undoing it with deft fingers before unfastening his button and fly. Feliciano's pants pool at his shoes. The cold air feels is a balm against his thighs and he feels his lover's other had caress his legs, just under the curve of his ass – just under the hem of his pink lace panties.

"Wore these… for me?" he asks. His voice is deep and seductive and makes Feliciano's ears ring.

"Yes…," he sighs deliciously.

A hand spank against his left cheek makes Feliciano squeak before it dissipates into liquid pleasure in his veins.

"Did I say you could speak?" growls Ludwig.

The Italian man's lips curved up into a smile. "You asked me a question… _captain_."

Another swift, hard smack and Italy staggers forward a little and bites back a groan.

"Shut up."

Feliciano knows his lover. He knows his lover well. When he feels Ludwig's erection pressed against the fabric of his revealing underwear, he drools and suppresses his moan. He knows Ludwig's turned on by this – the time he'd 'accidentally' stumbled upon his dirty (_filthy_) books should have given him a clue. As a military general, he's all about control and it just tickles him the right way to know he can take Feliciano whenever, _wherever_ he wants. He's been thinking about playing that card a little more. Sometimes he sees something dull within his lover's eyes after they finish - he knows he wants something more than the blowing, then the fucking, but too scared to suggest it. Too scared to wonder if his German will change. Too scared in case he doesn't like it - in case it hurts, and he hates it, and then he hates _him_.

Feliciano, however, has been toying with the idea of public sex for a while now. Discreet public sex is vanilla compared to some of the other stuff he's a little scared to know his lover is into. One of his dirty books contains candles – hot burning wax candles on flesh and the thought makes his insides churn, and not in a good way.

"Ludwig…," Feliciano groans. "Someone… could…see."

He hears Germany groan out in frustration and suddenly the pressure against his behind is gone. Italy turns back to his lover only to see him loosening the buttons of his crisp business shirt and unfastening the brown tie, before rolling it into a small ball and pressing it to Feliciano's lips.

"I said: shut up, Italy. Do you want to be caught?"

Yes. No. He doesn't know. Maybe. He takes the tie into his mouth anyway and bites down onto it to relieve some of his tension. Germany's eyes are hot and unrelenting. They're icy.

His panties are pulled done none-too-gently and Italy whimpers. He doesn't want them to be torn – they are new, and they're expensive and oh! They frame his ass so perfectly. He wriggles his hips a little, so the panties fall to his feet. Germany slaps him once more and Feliciano whimpers as the same hand rubs the over-sensitised skin.

Behind him, his lover shuffles a little and Feliciano turns to see Germany reveal a small bottle of lube from his he had been planning this. Feliciano's head spins at the thought of his lover planning such an illicit activity. But then again, he went out and bought provocative underwear in anticipation for today – so fair is fair.

Feliciano drools as he feels his lover's fingers enter him. It feels so naughty and satisfying all at once - there's no real way to describe such a feeling. After three months apart, he could almost _feel_ his virginity growing back and the muscles around his opening protest a little at the intrusion. Ludwig's tie is soiled by now. He wiggles his hips and tries to get the right angle, but it evades him as Germany shifts his fingers, thrusting them in and out slowly – just to tease. Italy bucks forward on the table, catching himself on the end. He wants to spit out the tie, he wants to yell and scream and plead his lover to give it to him like never before, but he doesn't risk it – he doesn't risk the possibility of his brother finding him, or big brother France, so he leaves it in.

Germany's fingers exit him suddenly and Italy is wrenched forward by the scruff of his blue business shirt. His cries are muffled as Germany enters him. He's slippery, warm and wet, and Germany's grunts are divine to Italy. Somewhere soon after, the German releases Italy's wrists in preference of grasping his hip and Italy reclaims his limbs, grasping onto the edge of the table and holding on for dear life.

His pace is fast from the beginning. It's unrelenting and Italy closes his eyes, grasps blindly for the edge of the table and screams into the necktie his blissful agony. Behind him, Germany swears and pants and hisses as he forces Italy's body back and forth against the table, hearing the offending object's squeaky protests.

Feliciano whimpers. Germany's hand is on his lower back, grasping his hip while he slams into him. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh contact is a blissful, sickly erotic sound. The backs of Italy's legs are raw.

Germany pants and hunches over Italy's body. It's so tight, and he should have more lube, but the sharp pains he feels with the slightly rough, dry thrusts selfishly please him. He shuts his eyes and groans loudly. He's almost there… _almost_.

"Italy," he calls desperately, his hand grasping the edge of the table, beside the smaller nations as he leans over him. Italy looks up to Germany, watches his handsome face flush and contort and his bottom lip tremble. Italy's wanton and sexy and gagged and he feels so naughty, and he just wants to come.

A particularly deep thrust on the new angle hits the right spot and Italy convulses and cries out as it hits that spot deep inside him. He doesn't have time to recover as it happens again. Suddenly he feels hot all over, so hot that he can't handle it any longer. His skin is burning.

Feliciano comes almost silently, his whimpers and cries being swallowed by his lover's necktie that is partially hanging from his mouth – wet and dripping. His body contorts and arches. His toes curl and his fingertips dig into the wood of the desk. A grunt above him and erratic breathing against his neck tells the Italian his partner has received the same satisfaction. Ludwig slows his pace, revelling in the euphoric glow of orgasm before slipping out, flaccid and sated.

"Are you all right?" asks the German in strained voice, touching the Italian's cheek affectionately. Italy always likes it when Germany's like this after sex - a little bit more affectionate than usual, a little more touchy-feely and he never complains about it.

Feliciano nods and sits on the top of the table. He spits out Ludwig's tie and hands it to him.

"Ah… thank you…," mutters Germany and takes the gooey fabric and stuffs it into his coat pocket. By his watch, they have exactly two minutes to get back to the conference room.

"Do you think anyone heard us?" Italy whispers as he nuzzles Germany's neck. He makes use of the German's mood while it lasts. He is painfully strict sometimes in his 'no-touching until training' regime. He uses that dirty trick quite often because it works.

"I don't know. We have to get back. Hurry up and help me clean up the mess."

There's a small packet of wipes on the shelf – Italy realises how ingenious it is to have sex in a janitor's closet: clean-up is super easy. Germany throws away the soiled rags as Italy pulled on his pants.

"Ve, Germany, that was pretty sexy," he smiled. "I'm glad you liked my underwear."

The German offers a smile.

"Ja, well, don't tell me you didn't want it when you showed half the table your ass when bent over to get your pencil this morning. Even Greece noticed that."

"I wanted it. Very much," Italy laughs. "I can't help it. But you never used to carry lubricati0n in your pocket." He taps it and watches as his lover blushes furiously. "Car troubles?"

Germany fails to respond and Italy laughs.

"I'm sorry I was away with big brother France for so long…," says Italy eventually; his tone is sober. "I missed you."

"Ja, it was all right." Germany shifts uncomfortably. Italy takes his hand.

"Let's go. We're running late. I'll check if the coast is clear and then you can leave a little while after."

Germany nods. Italy opens the door, looks around and motions to Germany to come out. The hallway is empty, so they both approach the conference room. Italy slicks over his hair and adjusts the buttons on his shirt before following Germany into the conference room. There are still some nation representatives missing and Germany sighs in relief – they're not late.

The two take their seats again at the table as other nations filter through. Romano comes back, and Switzerland enters again – on the phone with someone. Germany reminds himself to call his brother. America enters again, talking harmlessly with England.

"Ey, Germany..," a voice calls to him across the room. It's France.

"Ja?" Everyone's notices the sudden conversation.

"Weren't you wearing a tie before?"

* * *

This is a multi-chapter fic I'm working on at the moment – basically a collection of Gerita PWPs (include BDSM, role play, etc). I aim to have about 5-6 chapters; they have continuity but can stand alone. Hopefully I'll be able to upload the next chapter within the next few weeks – its end of semester at University, so I should have time to write more soon.

If you're interested in seeing more, I'd love to hear from you! Please take the time to leave a quick review before you go.

~ Arlia'Devi


	2. Chapter 2

This one is set just after WWII, whereas all the others in the series will be set in modern/ambiguous times etc. Just a heads up.

**Chapter two:**

**Unification**

By Arlia'Devi

Germany had just arrived home from his meeting with the Allies when there is a knock on his door. His dogs, Aster, Blackie and Berlitz, rush to the door and begin barking madly, making Germany's head pound harder than previously.

It is eight thirty at night when Germany hushes his dogs before going to answer the door. It could be Prussia, blind-drunk again and only knocking because he can't remember how to use the doorknob (that has happened). Aster bounds back and forth excitedly, and Germany notices this – Aster has not taken much of a liking to his brother in the years that he's moved into his West Berlin home.

Germany pulls the door open and flicks on the porch light, illuminating the Italian man who waits on his porch.

"Hallo Italy," he mutters. Italy would have been his second guess at a guest. "What are you doing around here this late?"

Italy is panting heavily. Had he run here? Germany wonders. "You didn't get caught by Switzerland again, did you, Italy?"

Italy regains his breath and spies Aster who is sitting in front of his master, wagging her tail happily.

"Puppies!" he cries happily and Aster pushes her way through the unhitched screen door and into the Italian's affectionate arms. "_Ve_, your doggies are so cute, Germany. I came to see you tonight. How have you been?"

"Busy," he replies.

"Can I come in?" Italy asks. "I mean, if it's not too much trouble?"

Germany sighs and nods, hitching the door open with his foot. Italy enters the German's home as the taller man whistles his dogs back inside.

"Does Prussia live with you now?" Italy asks, looking around the home. It is cleaner than before, and all the burnt wallpaper, all the soiled furniture has been replaced. There is a fire burning in the hearth, only a small one with fresh tinder, – it seemed Germany had only just gotten home.

"Ja. In the basement. He's not here at the moment," says Germany, entering the kitchen. There are some leftovers on the kitchen counter with a note from his brother – "From Prussia, with love – ps. I fed the dogs", stuck on top. It is some sort of strange casserole, but Germany is not picky and tips it into a saucepan to heat up over the gas.

"Do you want a beer, Italy?" he asks, going for the cooler.

"No," he calls. He must still been out playing with the dogs in the sitting room. Germany cracks his beer and drinks it down as the casserole begins to bubble up on the stove.

Italy enters the kitchen and watches as Germany heats his dinner – it is late at night, almost nine o'clock and Germany had not eaten yet? A few strands from the man's pushed back blonde hair are beginning to fall from their styled back look and dangle in front of his eyes. Italy stays by the doorway.

Germany looks tired. He's heard a lot of stories about him and big brother France – how they are pulling him apart for his own good.

"… Big Brother France says you'll get your country back one day, Germany," says Italy shallowly from the other side of the kitchen.

Germany tilts his head a little Italy's way, but does not look at him. "Ja, what makes you so sure?"

Italy shrugs a little. There's not much he can say, realises the Italian, which will make Germany feel any better. "I don't. It's just what big brother said. I don't want you to go, Germany."

The German doesn't respond for a long time. He drinks his beer and stirs his casserole, turning down the heat when it begins to bubble and boil.

"You'll find someone else to lean on," says Germany eventually. "Perhaps you and your brother could team up for once and do something respectable."

Italy pouts. "It wouldn't be like you… it wouldn't be like Germany…"

Germany huffs as he pours his dinner into a bowl. Their relationship makes no sense. No sense whatsoever. They are completely different countries, who hold completely different values. And yet, it has worked for them for so many years. Why?

Germany doesn't want to think any longer, so sits down at the small dining table and begins to eat. Italy shifts nervously.

"Sit," says Germany, pointing to the chair. "You don't leave."

"If Germany doesn't want me here, I'll go… if he is tired."

"It's late," Germany states monotonously. "Dark outside. And cold."

Italy shrugs a little. "Switzerland has poorer aim in the night-time, and those camouflage training exercises really work."

A small smile quirks at Germany's lips. To think Italy has learnt something from the training sessions is an absurd thought.

"If you don't have anywhere to live, Germany, you can live with me. Prussia can come too, you know," said Italy says. "It would be like the old days. Even Japan might come over to visit, one day."

"Nein, Italy, I think Japan has his own problems at the moment," says Germany. "I still have some control. As long as that maniac Russia doesn't decide to do anything stupid, it will be fine. Stop worrying."

Italy's teeth work over his lip. Germany finishes his beer and goes for another one. There isn't much in his cooler – or in his cupboards for that matter. Some cans of preserved meat, beans and a few loaves of bread and warm beer.

After a moment, Germany has finished his dinner and his second beer and goes to wash up while Italy went to check out his television. There is something on in French, which was weird, and he didn't like listening to French stuff, so he switches it over. Eventually there is nothing of great value on the television and Germany has come into the room from washing the dishes, so he turns it off.

Germany falls into the lounge and Italy crawls across the warm, rugged floor of the lounge to sit by his boots. With deft fingers, slowly he begins to untie the laces of his knee-height military standard boots. Germany watches with glazed eyes as the Italian unfastens the strings, feeling a warm from the fire that was smouldering away in the hearth and the small amount of alcohol that ran through his veins.

One boot is pulled off slowly and The Italian pushes up Germany's pants to his knees and the elastic in the hemming keeps them there. Next, he goes for the sock, the black woollen sock and slowly pulls it off, revealing milky feet, clipped toenails and heels that have a thick layer of callouses. But they are beautiful and Italy doesn't look up to Germany for approval when he kisses the top of one foot briefly, then the inside of his ankle, before grazing his lower lip up the inside of Germany's calves. He has thin blonde hairs here, like babies hair, and they feel strange against his lips.

He manages to untie the other shoe quickly but still removes it with the same excruciating slowness. Germany watches without a word. He doesn't know what he's supposed to be thinking, or what Italy is doing or the motives he has, but for a moment – he just doesn't seem to care. It feels nice to be touched, to be caressed by the gentle hands. Italy is about to kiss his other foot, just on the top, then his ankle and then his shin. When he gets to the shin, he places a chaste kiss against it and looks up at Germany, an impish smile across his face. His eyes are swimming with devilish intentions. Germany can't bring himself to care to worry about what those intentions may be, and what it could mean for the future. At the moment, he has no fucking future – his life is in the hands of the Allies. Perhaps it was time to live a little.

He places his hands on Italy's head, letting the soft strands of hair fall through his gloved hands. Italy smiles for a moment and rears back, grabbing hold of Germany's hand and biting on the end of his middle finger, getting the leather between his teeth and pulling. Germany groans. The glove drops from Italy's mouth to the floor and he allows the German to intertwine and fist his hair gently.

He does the same to the other glove but does not let Germany reclaim his finger. Gently he laps at his fingertips – at the hands so soft from being protected by the leather. They're like his feet, virginal treasures of pure white flesh that's so buttery soft against his lips and cheeks. Italy whimpers and rubs the back of Germany's hand over his cheek.

"Germany," he sighs lustfully.

"Say my name," he demands huskily. Italy looks up at him, and he can't help but notice the large bludge suddenly in his pants. "My human name – I know you know it."

Italy smiles and takes Germany's index finger into his mouth, sucking on the tip gently.

"Ludwig," he sighs and runs the tip of his tongue along the underside of Germany's middle finger. "Ludwig's hands are so sensitive. They're so big and strong. I love these hands."

He lets go of Germany's hands in favour of running his own up the inside of Germany's thigh ever so slowly. His amber eyes flick up to Germany's and the older nation thinks they're on fire – like liquid gold. Ever so slowly Italy's hands skim up the inside of his thighs, until one rests on his hip and the other is palming his bulge. Germany almost groans again, just from the contact and the delicious friction.

Italy leans forward a little, only a fraction in the balls of his feet, and Germany can feel his hot breath on the fabric of his pants.

"If you want me to stop," he whispers gently, but doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to. Germany knows what he means, and he's not inclined to let the little Italian stop. Not yet.

He does groan when Italy squeezes him tightly and his hips move off the couch a little. Italy's hand begins to squeeze and then loosen, squeeze and then rub, and Germany's head falls back against the lounge, his hand over his eyes in pleasure.

"Ludwig," Italy murmured. The hand that is on his hip moves toward the buckle of his belt and touches the soft leather, the detailing of the iron cross carved on the buckle. Germany watches as he unhooks it and pulls it out like a ribbon. It drops to the floor with a clatter.

He goes for the buttons next, and pops them both with no problem. The fabric in his pants is straining now and when he drags the zipper down, tooth by fucking tooth, it's a great relief. Italy laughs in the back of his throat as he pushes down his grey boxer-briefs.

His eyes flick up to Germany's, only, the older nation assumes, to check if this is all right or if he's going to object. Germany doesn't reply, his face is stony so Italy continues, allowing the erect member to pop up out of his military pants.

"Big," he mumbles gently, touching it with his fingers. Like a steel rod covered in velvet, he runs his fingers gingerly up and down it, pressing a little harder on the downward strokes. The tip is leaking a little, and he wonders what it would taste like, if it tastes like anything at all. He knows this feels good – it's been in all the books he's read in the dark, dusty corners of the library.

He swipes his tongue across the mushroom tip and hears Germany gasp. It doesn't taste like anything at all, so he nuzzles the length against his nose, planting the flat of his tongue at the base of the shaft and running it all the way up.

When he takes the whole member into his mouth, Germany grasps Italy's hair in his un-gloved hand, fisting it gently but not guiding his movements. His eyes are screwed shut tightly and his breath his haggard and short.

"Italy… ah," he says some colourful words in German as Italy takes a hard suck and comes up with a 'pop'.

"My human name," he whispers. "I know you know it. Say it." He pumps him quickly for a moment, like he would himself when he's close to coming – hard and fast and relentless.

"Ah! Feliciano," he grunts. Italy takes back his hand, spits in it, and then goes back to his duties. Germany bucks up at the sudden contact.

"Stop," he says suddenly.

Italy stops. He takes his hand off and wipes a little residue on Germany's pants.

"You didn't like-," he mutters.

"I did," replies Germany with a grunt. He's still red and pulsing as he sits up a little straighter. Italy can't understand why. "Come here."

"Up there?" Italy asks from the floor. Germany nods.

He murmurs a small, "yes captain," as he straddles Germany on the lounge. Behind them is a great game of soccer, one Prussia will rant on about for the next few years, but neither of them notice it.

Germany takes Italy's chin between his thumb and forefinger and brings Italy's head closer to his own so when he speaks, Italy can feel his breath against his lips.

"If you want me to stop," he murmurs. Italy nods. Germany's eyes are like cobalt – dark and haunting, and deeply alluring. He whimpers a little at the intense stare and looks away, turning his head a little in Germany's grasp.

"_Feliciano_," he says patiently and Italy turns back to him. Germany nips him gently on the lips and Italy sighs, leaning in for more kisses.

_More kisses, yes, more hugs, more of Germany's touches, yes…_

Italy strings his fingers through Germany's hair and whimpers. When the elder nation's tongue swipes over his lower lip, he keenly granted entrance, pressing himself closer to the man. He feels Germany's erection against his pants and his own semi-hard member.

Germany's hands come to Italy's shirt and began undoing the buttons, one by one until he could slip his hands under the collar and push it off his petite shoulders. Italy whimpers at the contact against Germany's lips and the elder nation runs his fingertips up the length of Italy's spine, making him arch and cry out.

Germany attaches his lips to Italy's neck and sucks hard, and his thumb brushes over his nipple, making it pebble and ultra-sensitive. In response, Italy rocks his hips forward, pressing himself closer to the larger man and whimpering when he feels Germany's heavy duty shirt.

Italy sighs and breaks away, making quick work of Germany's shirt, then his black tank top. Slowly he traces Germany's toned chest, traces the small translucent scars that mar his flesh. He touches them with the smallest caresses and Germany watches. Some are still fresh – from his struggle at the end of the war, but they will heal. He will not die. Italy kisses them gently – every one of them before moving back to Germany's lips.

He kisses him tenderly, running his fingers through Germany's feathery soft hair. Germany allows these simple touches for a while, quite a long while, simply satisfied to allow Italy to do what he wants against him. Germany goes to Italy's pants then, unfastening them and touching his crotch in the same way. Italy whines against his lips as Germany squeezes.

"Please, I-," Italy gasps.

"What?" replies Germany darkly. "What do you want?"

Italy shimmies the pants off his hips so they fall around his knees.

"I don't know," he almost wails. "Show me. Please."

Germany gets up to turn off the television, easily manoeuvring Italy against his body with one hand. Italy clings to his body as Germany ascends the stairs. They enter his master bedroom, and it's bare and quaint – functional is a word Italy would describe it as, with not much frilly decoration. There's a King bed with a simple cover and throw, a bedside table, a smaller bookcase with more books and a lamp. There's a photo, Italy doesn't know what it is though, hanging above the dresser, as he's dropped not all that gently on the bed.

He kisses Italy tenderly, and it's not what he expects. It's dark in the room, but the window is open. The moonlight offers little light however, just a distinction between shadows on the wall. The light dances off Germany. He looks magnificent.

"If I keep going," says Germany in a harsh whisper. "If I don't stop… Will you want that? Want this?"

Italy nods.

"Say it," demands Germany. "I need to hear you say it."

"I want this."

"What do you want?" his hand comes down to Italy's shoulder and rests there.

Italy looks at him. "You," he says and works Germany's pants so they fall down to his knees. He's only wearing his black tank top, but Italy sits up on his knees and soon that's gone as well.

Fair is fair, realises Germany and takes the collar of Italy's shirt as the smaller nation is busy touching his chest, his shoulders, his collarbone – anything he can reach.

Once Italy's shirt is off, he pulls off the white tank top under it, before Germany pushes Italy back onto the bed non-too-gently. The Italian huffs as his back hits the bed and hands begin playing with his belt buckle. For a moment he groans when Germany brushes his hand against the tent in his pants, then squeezes, before it's gone and so are his pants and his underwear and he can feel the cold breeze on those sensitive hairs.

Germany's body pins the Italian under him and Italy cranes to kiss him passionately, letting his tongue slide against the German's, and his hands to fist into that blonde, feathery hair.

Germany moans and presses Italy's body closer to his. He's brain is buzzing, but he's not thinking – not really. He's not thinking, for once, he's impulsive. He's doing, touching and experiencing and making is decisions on impulse and gut. He runs his hand through Italy's hair and revels in how soft it is. He wonders how to men's bodies can be so different, but Italy's hips are narrow and his skin is smooth and supple. His other hand caresses his side and Italy whimpers into the German's mouth. Italy is so responsive. Germany's hand accidentally caresses Italy's curl, and the nation whines at the contact. Thinking it a good response, Germany touches it again, a little harder and more directly this time.

Italy pulls his lips away from Germany and visibly shivers.

"Don't," he pants. "Don't do that."

"It looked like you were enjoying it?" Germany questions. His voice is husky.

"Ve," Italy kisses his collarbone. "I was. Too much."

Germany shifts then, only slightly, so that Italy's back is to the headboard and he can sit against it, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Germany walks to the tallboy on the other side of the room and Italy watches in the dim light as he searches through one of the top draws. He sighs and runs his eyes over the man's scarred, broad back, rippled with muscles and imprints it to memory – the dimples that bookend his spine, the way his arse cheeks clench as he walks, the tops of his toned thighs. He is Adonis, walking among the mortal.

And then, Italy's Adonis pas back to him and kneels down, a small bottle of oil in his hand. Italy smiles gently as Germany lowers his head to him, running a hand through his hair.

Italy is still covered down there, and Germany slips his tongue between the fold of skin and hears Italy's cry. Running down the shaft, Germany takes Italy into his mouth and laves his member with his tongue and lips, watching under his lashes as his lover pants and rolls his head back. Laced with sweat, Italy's chest heaves up and down in the moonlight. It's a beautiful sight.

"Ludwig, I-," Italy grits and pants, trying to warn his partner.

"Relax. You can come if you want," Germany replies, licking around the head. Italy gasps and groans, screwing his eyes shut. He so doesn't want to come, not yet, but it never takes him long and he's already so primed. Germany begins to get impatient and sucks a little harder, feeling Italy buck under him before clumsily grabbing the oil on the table, squirting a generous amount onto his hands and pushing Italy's thighs back a little.

When Italy feels a finger enter him, he cries out unceremoniously at the intrusion. The finger fucks him slowly, making the entrance slick and warm. Italy whimpers and wriggles and then Germany adds another and Italy just feels the small burn of the muscles. But the burn, the slight pain only adds to the pleasure as the German works over his front.

Suddenly, Germany jams the tip of his tongue against Italy's slit, sucks hard and thrusts his fingers roughly and Italy's coming with a keening wail, grabbing Germany's blonde hair by the handfuls. The sensation of the German swallowing his come is something different all together and Italy bucks and whimpers before trying to scramble away. He huffs against the mattress and Germany wipes his lips on the back of his hand.

Italy's limbs feel like jelly; he can't go on. He is exhausted and when Germany crawls onto the bed, not bothering to hide his raging erection, he squirms awkwardly. Italy huffs. He can't do any more – maybe he can suck him off if he really wants to, but; he is exhausted.

"Turn over," Germany says, a harsh strain to his voice.

Italy squeaks a protest and then Germany's hand touches his hip. "Feliciano." His voice is a little gentler.

Italy knows he can say no, he knows he can suggest more oral and Germany will have probably accept it because despite the past few years, he's still the Germany, the slightly shy, kind Germany he's known. Instead, Italy rolls over and feels Germany's hand caress his lower back, and then run up his spine.

Germany kisses his shoulder, then the back of his neck, before crawling over his body, pressing his chest to Italy's back. A hand goes to raise Italy's hips at just the right angle; he whispers a gentle word in his ear and Italy squeaks, grasps the bed sheets and embraces.

"If you tense up, it will hurt," Germany says. "Breathe. Relax."

"I can't," he whimpers. "It's going to hurt anyway."

Germany straightens up and grabs the disregarded bottle of lube. A little more lubrication never hurt anyone, and Germany lathers up again knowing it may make the difference between a lot of pain and a little.

"Relax, Feliciano," he whispers. The curl is dangling in front of his head but touching it only makes Italy tense. Slowly, he pushes in. Italy squirms and gasps at the slow pace, feeling the member touch places deep inside him.

"Gah!" Italy gasps into the sheets, panting. "Is it in?"

"Ja," Germany grunts. "Are you in pain? Tell me when I can move." He was so tight and Germany closes his eyes tightly.

Italy takes his time, gasping and panting. He can't escape. He feels trapped against and under Germany, pinned down to the mattress. The man is hot and panting above him.

"I don't want it this way," he gasps into the bed sheets. "I want to look at you. Please."

Germany withdraws with a small undignified moan and Italy rolls over, hooking his legs on Germany's hips. He can see Germany now; see his beautiful eyes, dark and blue like a wild ocean. He can see the small wrinkles that knot Germany's brow as he pushes in once again and Italy gasps and raises his hips. This time, he only pauses for a second before sliding back out, and then in again and Italy whimpers. Germany's hands rest near his head, supporting the larger man and Italy craves that intimate contact. He nuzzles Germany's wrist and kisses the inside and is rewarded when Germany tangles his fingers into the Italian's auburn hair.

The German grunts and buckles over Italy. He grasps Italy's erection, which has slowly come back to life and tugs it non-too-gently. The smaller nation yelps out, and his hands reach around Germany's back, digging his fingernails into the skin of his shoulder blades.

"Ludwig, I-," he doesn't have the time to say anything; it falls from his lips in a loud groan. His curl is tugged, none-too-gently and then he's coming again, falling, and flying and he doesn't even care because Germany's hands are all over him like he's always wanted them to be and his body is on fire.

Slowly, slowly, he comes down from the high to find Germany on his chest, positioned awkwardly, his eyes shut and his breathing heavy. Italy removes his legs from Germany's waist with a creak and a protest from the bones and muscles. He's truly exhausted now. He's never had much stamina… but apparently it's something he can improve on.

He knows he calls out to Ludwig, but he can't tell if he's speaking English or Latin or Italian or a bit of Spanish he's picked up over the years, or a whole lot of them combined, but when Germany rolls him over and blankets are placed upon his body, he's gone – fallen into unconsciousness. Blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

In the morning the sun streams through the window and Germany is sitting naked on the edge of the bed. His hair is dishevelled and falling over his eyes. Italy is behind him, hugging a pillow and sleeping softly and Germany watches the smaller man over his shoulder for the moment.

It was wrong what he's done. He'd wanted the fuck. Wanted to forget all the things that had happened in the recent years and months. Just needed to get away from it all and not think for a moment. But Italy wasn't the one to use and abuse. He feels sick to his stomach.

"Ludwig…," Italy hums and reaches out across the bed sheets drowsily.

"I have a meeting with the Allies in an hour," Germany replies, though he doesn't know why he says this. "How do you feel? Are you all right?"

"Fine," Italy replies and sighs contently. "A little bit sore, but fine."

"Was that your first time?" Germany asks but he can't bare to look at Italy. "You know…"

"Making love?" supplies the Italian. "Yeah."

Well shit Germany thinks and runs his hands through his hair. He didn't deserve that, didn't deserve what he did to him, realises the German. The Italian should have been with someone he loved… someone, anyone, but him, who was sick and twisted and utterly destroyed at that moment. Germany doesn't notice when Italy climbs out of bed and pads into the ensuite.

"Bath?" the water begins to run.

"Nein," replies Germany and leaves the bedroom before Italy comes back out. He goes and gets dressed from clothes folded in the laundry and then makes breakfast – bland, high-fibre cereal. Italy's still in the bath and Germany ascends the stairs.

The bubbly warm water does nothing to calm Italy, or to wash things away. If he'd wanted something so much last night, then why did he feel so dirty this morning? He feel likes Germany's plaything, and now he's been tossed aside. Maybe he won't visit him for a little while now. Maybe he'll just stay away. He can't stand how the German looked at him, so he'd left, retreated, as he was known best for doing and wallowed his sorrows in the bathtub.

He'd told Germany he'd loved him, in a mash of all the languages he'd known, and the German hadn't replied – maybe because he hadn't understood the gibberish, maybe it was because he didn't want to reply. They'd made love, but Italy knew Germany called it something different – something that doesn't include love.

There's a knock at the door.

"Feliciano? Can I come in?" It's Germany.

"Si."

The door creaks open and Germany steps in, padding up to the bath.

"Does Germany want to take a bath with me?" he doesn't know why he said it. He knows the answer.

"Nein."

Germany's tone is unusually harsh. Italy sighs and rests his chin on the edge of the bath. He shifts a little in the warm water and is surprised when Germany sits down beside the free-standing bath.

"Listen, Italy…," Germany mutters.

Italy shifts away.

"Don't."

Germany frowns. "Don't what?"

"Talk. I don't want to hear it."

"_Feliciano_-," he chastises.

"Ti amo," Italy blubbers. "You didn't hear me say it last night. Ti amo, Ludwig. I don't know how to say it in your language but I love you. I love you so much." He is crying now, rubbing his tears away with the back of his hands.

Germany sighs and looks to the bathmat. On the silver trolley near the bathtub is a small necklace holding an Iron Cross – the one Germany had given Italy many decades ago. He leans forward and picks it up, holding it in his hands. He wears the exact same necklace, and so does his brother.

"You still wear this?"

Italy nods and sniffs.

Germany sighed and leant forward, fixing it around Italy's neck and letting the cold metal touch his warm skin. The ends of Italy's hair are wet and the bubbles in the tub are slowly disappearing. Where did he get bubblebath from anyway? Germany never used such products.

"This is the second most significant cross in my life," replies Italy. Under the Iron Cross is a Christian-Catholic one, in gold and much more delicate than Germany's.

"I gave you that cross because I care for you, Feliciano," Germany mutters. "I wanted you to wear it, and it made me happy to see you wore it with such pride – that it meant something to you."

"Of course it meant something to me," Italy mumbles. "It was from Germany."

The German man smiles and not for the first time that morning, he realises how guilty he feels for putting Italy in this position. He never wants to hurt the man, and realises that he may just have to go out of his comfort zone on this one.

Germany clears his throat. "You're special to me, Feliciano. More than anyone else."

Italy looks at him with those bright brown eyes. "You really mean that?"

"Ja. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."

Italy considers this a moment longer in the tub, playing with the rings on his fingers he hasn't taken off. They're gold and silver so they won't rust in the water. He knows Germany didn't respond to his confession of love, but at least it's something…

"I'm in a bad place at the moment, Italy," he murmured. "I can't give you any more than I've given you now. Whatever more you want, whatever confessions, I can't give you them. Not now."

"It's enough," replies Italy looking over to a miserable Germany. "Does it make Germany feel better to know I love him? Love him more than anyone else in the world?"

Germany smiles for a moment. Suddenly, being wanted and claimed isn't as bad as he'd previously thought. He wouldn't mind being someone's, if the someone was Italy. Being loved and desired isn't a feeling he's used to. In fact, over the years the Italian man has shown him many feelings he wasn't used to experiencing – like friendship and contentment and that feeling you get when you take a break from training just for a little while and enjoy something.

"Ja," Germany replies with a small smile. He kisses Italy's head then. It's covered with bubbles and the Italian giggles. "It does."

* * *

This has to be one of the longest one-shots I've ever written. This one was a little period-piece, but had a bit of a feet and shoe and hand fetish kink. It took me quite a long time, since I kept changing tenses, reverting back to past tense, so for any typos in there, I'm sorry, though I tried to iron most of that out.

I also really hate the lemons that are 'intro-sex-iloveyou-end'. In my opinion two-thirds of the interest of the story is the sex and the other third is what happens after the sex. When I read stories that end with the 'I love you' exchange, I'm actually sorta disappointed.

Anyway, thanks to those people who reviewed the last chapter. The following chapters will be set in the modern era, and another should be coming out soon!

Please take the time to leave a review before you go. They take 30 seconds and I love hearing from readers!

~** Arlia'Devi**


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